


winter heart

by Destina



Category: Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the things Edgar wants to know are written beneath Curtis's skin, a vanished world existing only in his memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	winter heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/gifts).



> A yuletide treat for mific.

Curtis isn't allowed to have wants or desires. It is the devil's bargain he made with himself in those terrible desperate days before the protein blocks began to arrive. He vowed that the price for his continued existence would be to give up everything - food, clothing, space - to those who needed it most. He refused the food he was offered, because living on human flesh was no life at all. 

So it comes as a terrible surprise to him when he begins to want Edgar. 

Of all things in their narrow world, Edgar is the one he should have the decency to leave be, but he can't. Edgar is his - Edgar has always been his, no matter how much he tried to deny it when Gilliam told him that tiny life he'd spared was his to guard and protect. 

He has tried never to use his body for the wrong reasons. Not since he put down his knives and swore to use them only if attacked. But he long ago put himself between Edgar and the men with hungry eyes who refused to stop hunting. Most of them are dead now; Curtis had to be sure. And when the time comes, when plans are taking shape and obsessions begin to form in the minds of those who ride the train's tail, he teaches Edgar to fight. He owes Edgar this - every chance to increase his odds of survival, because even in a space this small, Curtis can't be there every moment, and he can't bear to think of Edgar defenseless. 

It's a debt he owes, but it is much more than that. It's Edgar's bright laugh; it's his quick movements, and the way he refuses to give ground, to play at the things that are deadly serious to Curtis. He is a perfect pupil, and Curtis -

Curtis wants him.

They grapple and tussle, and Edgar grows strong, slender but sly. He reminds Curtis of young trees in the woods, learning how to brave storms and not be broken. Another thing he can't say to Edgar, because there's no frame of reference, only stories the others tell in their darkest, most wistful moments. They keep the world that used to exist alive in their memories, painting word pictures for the children, and Edgar listens eagerly to all of it. 

"Tell me what flowers smell like," Edgar asks, after Curtis has slammed him to the ground over and over, never stopping even when Edgar whines in frustration. He will learn, because the alternatives are too dire to think about. Curtis's hand is still on Edgar's chest, and the heat of him bleeds right through the thin tunic Curtis bartered with Ellie to retrieve for him. 

"I don't know," Curtis says. Everything to compare it to is gone. 

Edgar grips his wrist. 

"Tell me!"

"Sweet," Curtis says. "Like...soft light, and sunshine." All of a sudden the ache begins in his belly, the one that only memories can summon up. It's the emptiness of all that's lost; it's the cavern in his soul opened up by what he took. 

They've tried to let the children have their innocence, but that was for the world before, like flowers and sunshine. What's left is death and empty bellies, and Edgar's not a child anymore, anyway. He arches underneath Curtis, made of curiosity and hard lean edges, and Curtis -

Curtis takes. Or Edgar gives. Or maybe it's both, and neither; Edgar's mouth is soft, and he makes small gasps of surprise and pleasure, curves shaking hands around Curtis's skull and pulls him closer. It's been so long, and Curtis's body is a tight-strung wire ready to snap. 

He takes Edgar's arm and pulls him off the ground. He should send him to Grey, who is quiet and kind, who is closer to Edgar's age. Grey would keep him safe. 

They stare at each other until Edgar surges closer, fingers wrapped in the fraying collar of Curtis's coat, and claims another kiss. 

Curtis will kill Grey if he touches Edgar. He might not have known before, but now he's sure. 

There is no privacy on the train. There are blankets slung over the railings of thin bunks, or clothes strategically placed one by one as they are removed, to shield the most private of things from public view. But the noises remain, hanging in the air like visible markers of all the things people prefer to keep hidden. People grow accustomed to keeping silent in order to be free in the confines of their space. 

Edgar is not silent. 

When he allows Curtis inside him, he speaks - Curtis's name sometimes, and other things, gibberish, how good it is, please, Curtis - until Curtis squeezes his eyes shut tight and puts a hand over Edgar's hot, talented mouth. He moves inside, where it's warm, where he's welcome, one strong arm locked around Edgar's slender body, and Edgar wriggles against him, his pleasure clear in the way he pushes back against Curtis's hips. 

When Curtis comes, he is surprised that the sounds so loud in their small space are his own. He presses his traitor mouth to Edgar's bare shoulder, holds there until Edgar has stopped shivering, his cock soft and wet in Curtis's hand. 

He puts his back to the world and for a while he can forget everything beyond the reach of his fingertips. Edgar sleeps, exhausted and content, and Curtis listens to the sound of the train while his heart presses too hard against its cage. 

~

People offer Curtis things in exchange for his protection, or his favor. Barely-stained coats; extra rations; their naked bodies, given with open arms and a tremulous smile. 

When he was young and had just put down his knife, he would take the offers sometimes. There was nothing better than a willing body, soft and warm, and the moment of forgetfulness when he'd come. But the bodies were never anonymous; children were born all the time on the train, and Curtis would have no part of that. 

He won't be around forever to stop others who are like he used to be, and the hunger of others is a living thing, like a beast in hibernation waiting to wake. 

It was easier with men: a quick exchange with hands or mouths, and then walking in the endless circle to keep warm. Even so, he no longer takes those offers. He directs the food and clothing toward others, usually the youngest, the ones in the most need, and looks away from the parents' grateful smiles. He doesn't want their gratitude. He doesn't need their loyalty. He needs their hands, and their strength, and their death. He needs their obedience, when the time comes. 

Most of all, he needs to be touched, to be reminded of what it is to be alive. To be human. It took seventeen years to erode what was left of his soul; it's taken only a few weeks to feel it kindle again. 

He finds Edgar, lets Edgar drag him behind a filthy blanket and strip him down. "Tell me what potatoes taste like," Edgar demands. 

"Delicious," Curtis says, getting his hands on Edgar's too-thin body. He'll find extra protein blocks for him, bargain or take, whichever way it goes. 

"That's no answer!" Edgar laughs as Curtis nuzzles his ribs, hands heavy on Edgar's bare hips. 

"Ask a normal question, then." 

"All right. What does summer smell like?" 

Curtis rolls his eyes and licks Edgar's nipple, worries it with his tongue until it rises to attention under his tongue. Then he drops lower, and takes Edgar into his mouth, his fat beautiful cock which rises up hard and eager every time Curtis touches it. 

"Tell me- tell me- " Edgar's fingertips sink into Curtis's hair. "Fucking Christ, Curtis, please," he says, and Curtis lets Edgar come in his mouth, swallows the bitterness because it's nourishment and it's Edgar, and surges up to kiss Edgar's slack, gasping mouth. 

He has no world to give Edgar, no picture to paint which will erase the charcoal lines and bring color back again. He has no way to explain that all the things Edgar wants to know, smells and tastes and sights, are written beneath his skin, a vanished world existing only in his memories. The best of it is what they share; the rest is nothing in comparison. 

He doesn't try; he can barely speak. He kisses Curtis, open-mouthed, until his words fall away and he drifts in the pleasure, because this is what matters. Only this. 

~

They plan. They plot, and make drawings; they measure and scheme. Curtis draws them all in, lures them with promises of all the water they need, of food that's not processed and windows to the outside world. Some lies, some truth, all necessary to win the coming war. 

"Enough," Edgar says some nights, when Gilliam has whispered of tactics and Curtis has drawn upon all he knows to fashion a battle plan. "C'mon." His hands are everywhere, tugging and pulling, and Curtis goes willingly away. 

They lie twined together in the dark, and when Edgar moves to pull away, to sleep alone, Curtis tightens his arms. No point in pretending. Who would even care? He nuzzles Edgar's short hair, which smells of smoke and sweat, and closes his eyes. 

Edgar may worship him without any reasonable explanation, but it's not as if Curtis can't understand the feeling. 

~

The time is coming when plans must be put into action. Curtis knows, even as he sits on the sticky floor of the train car and watches a man lose an arm for daring to love. They all watch, trapped between the longing for what was, and the desperation to grab hold of what's left. 

Sometimes Curtis forgets what fresh air smells like, so accustomed to the stale stink of unwashed bodies and human waste. But reminders come every so often when the portholes are opened for a few seconds, and the air rushes in, clean and pure, crystalline shapes of memory clinging to bits of snow. 

That's what being with Edgar is like. For a moment, Curtis is able to breathe again, but always behind that bright clean knowledge is the understanding that when the porthole is opened, the punishment follows just behind, limbs thrust through and broken off, pain and anguish. 

"Are we just going to sit here and watch?" Edgar hisses in his ear, and Curtis can't answer, can't look at Edgar while this lesson unfolds before them. He forces himself to see it, and to see what's beyond them all, at the front. What they're trying to get to. What matters most. 

Edgar presses against his back, warm and alive, real, precious, but Curtis lets the cold creep in. There are goals. There is the greater good. He is not allowed to want. He never was. 

For every moment of joy or triumph, there is a terrible cost.


End file.
